


And the Curtain Falls

by underscoredom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: For some reason John's mum is alive, Funeral, Gen, Grief, Jim being a bother, Mycroft being a brother, Post-Series, Sherlock knows John more than people think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underscoredom/pseuds/underscoredom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good bye was too dramatic; sorry was too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Curtain Falls

The weather is-- well, it's perfect. It isn't perfect for a funeral, but it is essentially perfect: the sun is dazzling, there are chirping sparrows, and outside the cemetery, children are looking forward to two months of freedom. Most important of all, there are no cases for him to solve; the ultimate (and perhaps, the only) reason to stay at home and catch up on the telly.

John would have loved it.

Sherlock glares at the sun. He blinks as tears leak from the corner of his eyes because looking at the sun hurts. Really, it does. The sun winks at him before hiding behind a particularly big cumulus.

Coward, Sherlock accuses. He turns his glare to the set of people he is forced to deal with today. Mrs. Hudson is dabbing her eyes with tissue with one hand and clutching Mrs. Turner's arm with the other. He spies Antonio, Bill, Mike and a few more people from Bart's. Sarah is there as well. She thinks she's so clever, trying to act like nothing is awkward between the two of them, but Sherlock knows from the way she shifts her eyes away from him, that she is very affected indeed.

Anderson has his arm around his wife's waist but casts his comforting gazes on Donovan, whose eyes are already red around the edges. Lestrade looks uncomfortable; he keeps trying to corner Sherlock, but the latter would not allow it. The weather was perfect; why aren't any of them basking under the sun, or whatever it is one does.

"Perfect weather. John would have loved it."

Sherlock is startled out of his thoughts but refuses to show it. Instead, he inclines his head, pretending that he is interested. Inside, he is struggling to breathe.

Don't look at her, he warns himself. Because although Harriet looked nothing like John (tall, for one thing. Brunette and surprisingly timid, when sober), she is still John's sister and oddly, that brings an ache to his heart.

"The rain would have had him grumbling about his knee," she continues. "Not that it would matter today." Sherlock wants to smash her head to the ground. The more she talks, the more he is aware that he is listening to the wrong Watson. Her pathetic attempt to make a joke shows that she doesn't mean any harm, but nevertheless, she is not John Watson. That alone makes Sherlock dislike her.

The hand he is keeping in his coat pocket is clenched. He forces it to relax and uses it to pat her once, twice on the back. The effort brings back the feeling of plunging headfirst into a pool of ice-cold water. He had not wanted to, but John had pushed him just as the gunshots were fired. He had not wanted to, had wanted to cherish the look of surprise on Moriarty's smug face, but John had apparently thought their safety should come first. Sherlock had struggled underwater, uselessly flailing his limbs, before he was able to surface, and by that time, when he turned to look for John--

Sherlock pats Harriet but cannot bring himself to look at her straight in the eye (not when she has John's eyes), nor does he have words to give. Harriet understands, tells him it wasn't his fault (but, Sherlock can tell that she isn't so convinced about that). She doesn't accuse him of anything, but she does offer a small smile, just a tiny upward tug of lips. For a brief moment, Sherlock sees John mouth, John's same smile, planted on the wrong face. Sherlock returns the smile, briefly, and she lets him go.

Sherlock releases the breath he doesn't realize he is holding. He closes his eyes and tries not to remember when it was he first saw that smile.

\--

The mass is short but solemn and extremely dull. John would have spent every ten minutes checking his watch, and unconsciously drumming his fingers against his knee or elbows. Sherlock wonders if his parents know that he had been an atheist for quite some time.

The priest is actually a past acquaintance of Sherlock (there had been an accusation regarding pedophilia, and he had proven that it was actually one of the altar boys molesting the Sunday school children. The case had been boring; the investigation had barely taken him half a day. He had spent the rest of that day indulging John's sudden whim to visit an aquarium).

Earlier, Bob, the priest, had given him a sympathetic look. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him. How could Bob ever sympathize with him? Bob never had John as a flatmate. He had never argued with, never impressed John. Had never shared a disgusting pint of beer, had never endured a poorly thought out movie with John. He had never watched over John as he slept, afraid that one day, he would not have the power to keep him alive.

Bob had never lived to see the day when that fear would come true. No, Bob simply could not sympathize with him.

Everyone sits down to listen to the homily. Sherlock hears only snippets of the monologue, catching John's name and the words 'good man' and 'no one deserves to die.' Because of me, Sherlock silently adds. John had not deserved to die because of me. He fixes his eyes, instead, on the open casket. Oak, painted black, varnished, and had been for sale for roughly half a year before it was bought. Inside was John, eyes closed and dressed smartly in his army uniform. It hides the bullets holes that had so smoothly cut through him.

(Sherlock had snorted when he heard one of John's aunts saying how he looked like he was asleep. Obviously, she had never seen him asleep. She had never seen the constant tossing and turning, never heard the shallow breathes, the frantic movement behind closed eyelids. She had never needed to comfort John with subtle touches to his cheeks, his forearm, the heel of his left foot.)

Bob invites them to stand and casts one last look at John. John's mother cannot suppress the sob in her throat any longer, and people murmur their condolences as they pass her. Sherlock stays where he is. He does not believe that this will be the last time he sees John.

However, he hopes that this will be the last time he'll see John dead and that, in his dreams, John will be alive and full of life.

His throat constricts. He blinks back tears; this time, he did not have the excuse of glaring at the sun.

\--

Before covering John with dirt, they are given roses to throw at the casket. Useless, but then again, so are all acts of sentiments (except for John's fortunes. He always kept the fortunes he got from fortune cookies whenever they had Chinese food. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at the scraps of paper building up in one of the table drawers until they got caught up in a murder case. It had turned out that the ring leader had communicated using the messages in fortune cookies).

They line up to drop their roses, as well as their parting message. Sherlock shifts his weight to his right leg. Up front, Mrs. Watson is still in hysterics, her rose held prisoner between trembling hands.

Sherlock's own rose is crumpled and wilting by the leaves. How appropriate, he decides. The only thing missing would be if he started stomping on the rose and left it to be picked up by the wind. He lines up, and again, thinks how ridiculous this is; John was allergic to roses (there had been an experiment when Sherlock had filled John's room with roses because his was too big. John had spent the next two weeks with a very runny nose and had needed to sleep on one side of Sherlock's bed).

"You should have spoken during the eulogy," Lestrade comments quietly, behind him. "You probably knew him better than anyone else."

They watch Harriet gently but firmly take a hold of her mother and lead her away. She herself has been crying, her mascara leading broken streaks from her lashes to her cheeks.

Sherlock steps forward. Lestrade does not say anything to him anymore.

Finally, it is his turn. He creases his brow. Rare was it when he did not know what to say and today was one of those moments. Goodbye was too dramatic; sorry was too late.

Thank you was something they never needed to say out loud.

He ends up saying nothing. He drops his rose, ignoring the quiver in his hand as he releases his grip (as tight as Mrs. Watson’s, Sherlock observes).

Sherlock does not bother to linger. He walks off and vaguely hears Lestrade promising he'll do his best to take care of him.

\--

Mycroft takes him home. He had offered Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner a ride as well, but the two had politely declined. Mycroft takes him home, and for once, it is means exactly what it means: it is Mycroft and not some silly assistant that takes him home, accompanies him upstairs and heats him soup. Sherlock immediately makes his way to couch and crumples on it, without even bothering to take off his coat, scarf or shoes.

The microwave (emptied of eyeballs or rat entrails or expired milk) beeps. Mycroft fills two mugs with the soup and places Sherlock's on the coffee table, where it will be left to cool and waste. Sherlock brings his head up at the smell of mushrooms and croutons but does not sit up. Instead he curls more into himself.

Mycroft does not say anything because, really, what else is there to say? He will wait for Sherlock to speak, they both know this. Sherlock contemplates telling his brother something, for once, but by the time he's organized his thoughts, he is asleep.

\--

They had tracked down the cabbie driver, John and Sherlock had. Sherlock is tempted to consume the pill, and John distracts him with a gunshot. The cabbie driver falls, but does not die. Instead, he waits for Sherlock to turn his back before jumping up and transforming into a muscled caricature of Moriarty. John literally pops into the scene and is held hostage between the muscled arms. Sherlock has no choice but to have a picnic with Moriarty under the Pacific, or else, goodbye John.

Sherlock pauses, on the verge of saying no. He wants to say no, but John's life is at stake once again.

His skull pops into the scene just as John had. She is hovering, holding a screwdriver between decaying teeth. Sherlock grabs the screwdriver and flings the skull at Moriarty. It had nothing to do with saving John but it made him feel better.

Moriarty retaliates by taking out a gun and firing at John. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound is ringing in his ears and he can't stop it. Bang! Bang!

Sherlock forces himself to open his eyes. There is a downpour today. Raindrops bang themselves against the closed windows.

He has little to no recollection of what has been happening for days. His dreams are of no use to him either. Today, he wakes up underneath a blanket-- orange, to be exact, and completely useless at keeping the cold out.

"I heard you murmuring in your sleep, my dear," a voice drawls, amused and perhaps even pleased.

Sherlock whips his head and narrows his eyes at Moriarty, seated so smugly on John’s seat. The last person to use that was Mycroft, and only because Mycroft could get away with a lot of things.

"Leave." He means to growl, but it comes out as a pathetic rasp.

"Oh no, I don't think so." Moriarty gets up to seat himself beside Sherlock. A hand reaches out to put dark curls behind an ear. He feigns concern through the tone of his voice and the hand that strokes his skin.

"You aren't ready to face the world alone; you're still grieving." Sherlock bats the hand away. He clenches his fist, ready to punch. Of course, Moriarty notices.

"Sherlock, you wouldn't dare! You aren't the only one in mourning." Moriarty sniffs for effect. "If I had known a dead John Watson meant you'd turn into such a bore whore, I would have done everything in my power to keep him alive."

"No you wouldn't." Sherlock is quick to answer.

"Yeah, I wouldn't. But I do miss the doctor. Now I have nothing to bait you to come outside. I do miss our tango, Sherlock. What if I get you a new ex-army doctor?" At Sherlock's narrowed eyes, Moriarty cocks his head to the side and adds in a thoughtful tone, "No? What do you want then? You can tell daddy." His lips widen to a mischievous leer. He leans in too close and runs his fingers over Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock licks his lips.

"I want to cut you into pieces, starting from your penis." Each word is enunciated in a low, menacing voice. "I want to push you off a waterfall, preferrably one with jagged rocks at the bottom. I want to skin you alive. I want--" Here, Sherlock's voice breaks as he lets out a laugh, ironic to his ears. "I want to burn the heart out of you."

"Oooh Sherlock! You kinky pervert," Moriarty breathes out. "Yes to all that, always. But not today, I'm afraid." He stands and picks at non-existent lint on his suit. "I would prefer our next show to be between the two of us, without having anyone else in mind." He puckers his lips and gives a kiss at Sherlock's direction. "Get better, Sherlock Holmes. Corrupting the world isn't so fun when there's no one to stop me. Get over your stupid doctor."

Sherlock hurls a mug, but Moriarty is already gone. The mug hits the wall instead and stenches the flat with the smell of expired soup.

\--

One past midnight. The stars are twinkling in a thousand explosions, in mock celebration. As it is technically Wednesday, Sherlock brings Chinese. He even remembers to get fortune cookies.

He is silent, listening to the sound of grass crunching beneath his shoes, and to the sound of ghost footsteps that follow him without question. Two years, two months and a week since boom! and he can still hear John following him. He thinks he should add delusional next to sociopath but, honestly, he can't afford another diagnosis on his well-being.

The cemetery is quiet at this time, which Sherlock likes. It is also damp as the rain had stopped just a couple of hours ago. He would have braved the rain but he had been on a case for almost a week (involving a series of girls who were raped, strangled and had their breasts chopped off. The number of deaths escalated by each day the killer still ran rampant. He could have let it go but he could hear John reprimanding him that people were dieing). Lestrade had offered to take him home. For once, Sherlock was too tired to protest. Mistake. The only way he had gotten Lestrade to leave was a promise to rest off his weariness and to actually fulfill that promise.

There are flowers placed on top of the tombstone: lilies. It's from Harriet then. Both of them are still grieving, Sherlock realizes. Two of the people John had been warned of or against numerous times and yet, they are ones still grieving.

He acknowledges the presence of the flowers with a small nod and seats himself in front of the tombstone. There is also a candle there, sad and half-used already. Sherlock considers lighting it up again and singing happy birthday, but he isn't a man of trivial practices.

Instead, Sherlock sets out the boxes of chao fan, dumplings and spring rolls. One set for John and one for himself. Pity neither would be eaten. Sherlock does poke the food a bit, the way he used to convince John that he was eating. Of course, John rarely fell for that and would sometimes refuse to eat until Sherlock had (He could have not eaten but he needed his blogger in top form all the time. Eating, he was sure, was one way of doing that). Later, perhaps he'll sneak a couple of bites: one for every year that John has been dead.

Sherlock takes off his coat to use as a makeshift blanket, as he lies down beside John. He has never done this before, share a bed with anyone. How oddly fitting that the first time he does it is at someone's deathbed.

His lips are cracked and his throat feels parched but he forces himself to talk.

"John. I've been meaning to tell you this," he starts. The cemetery is quiet so he speaks in hushed tones. "I've bought milk. Tea tastes like rubbish without milk. It took me a couple of tries to get it right though."

Beside him, John sleeps, remains dead and unmoving beneath six feet of dirt and worms and roots and life.

"The sun is roughly 92 million miles away from the Earth, John," he continues. "Not that it helps but I read about it a year ago and I can't seem to delete that byte of information."

He rolls so that he is lying on his side, facing John except he isn't facing John, is he? Just a patch of dirt that had been dug up a couple of years ago, filled in with a box and covered. A stone with John's name. A date that immortalizes one of his biggest regrets.

"John. I'm--" That is all he can get out before he chokes back a sob. Tonight, perhaps, that is enough.


End file.
